


Tales From Better Living Industries

by DanDreiberg



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Better Living Industries, Dystopia, Friedrich Nietzsche - Freeform, Gen, Mild Language, T.S. Eliot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanDreiberg/pseuds/DanDreiberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder what the people at Better Living Industries are actually up to while the Killjoys are running around the zones with the draculoids and the static? Find out in this exciting series of stories! Or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Martha

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Do It Now. Do It Loud](https://archiveofourown.org/works/989796) by [NightWalker83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightWalker83/pseuds/NightWalker83). 



> This is meant to be a sort of companion series to NightWalker83's "Do It Now. Do It Loud." I haven't actually checked to see if it's okay with her, though, so... um... hopefully it's okay. If not, this will be an awfully short collection of stories. This is my first time doing something like this, so I'm not exactly sure how everything works. If you are a person actually reading this and you notice something drastically wrong with the tags or something, let me know, and I'll try to fix it. So... yeah. Try to enjoy!

            Martha Brown’s heels clicked loudly on the white tile floor. Six years at Better Living Industries, and her wardrobe remained unchanged: coarse brown hair drawn back in a severe bun, white jacket over crisp white blouse, white skirt, and white 2-inch heels.

            The explanation for the heels was, of course, that Martha Brown stood just a trifle too short. Two inches below average, to be precise. An easily correctable error of genes; the heels gave Martha Brown what nature didn’t, putting her head at exactly the same level as that of every other woman employed at BLI.

            As always, Martha admired the cleanliness of BLI’s office building as she clicked to her desk. Spotless white walls, spotless white tile floor, clean fluorescent lights, all as they should be. As always, Martha sat at her spotless white desk and pulled out a sheaf of spotless white papers. As always, Martha pulled out a spotless white pen, turned on a spotless white radio, and commenced transcribing the previous night’s extermination notices.

            The recordings were transmitted by Judas Arnold, a rather important member of the Conformity Patrol. Exactly how important he was, Martha wasn’t sure. She had never actually met him in person. All she knew was that he worked undercover, investigating groups of nonconformist rebels and handing them over to BLI at the proper time. Arnold’s findings were always telephoned to a recording machine at the BLI offices at odd hours of the night, and it was Martha’s job to listen to the recording the next day, make notes, and send the proper notifications to the proper departments. Usually Arnold called to describe a certain person he felt should be exterminated; occasionally he called to report a successful elimination of one of those people. As most of the people Arnold reported as nonconformists eventually ended up dead, Martha assumed he was rather important, but of course she wasn’t really sure.

            In fact, Martha was rarely really sure about anything. Being a woman of entirely average brainpower and rather below average curiosity, Martha thought very little about things and knew even less about them.

            This morning, however, was just slightly different from most mornings. On this particular morning, Martha Brown was puckering her brows over a rather prickly problem concerning her larynx. Ever since puberty, Martha Brown had been troubled by an unusually rich contralto voice. Martha struggled to conceal the ability of her decidedly above-average throat, and she had on the whole done quite nicely. Unfortunately, Martha’s voice had recently begun to betray her. The blame, of course, rested on that hygienic human custom, the Morning Shower. Martha liked to relax in the shower, thinking of absolutely nothing as the hot water coursed over her head and she methodically bathed her entirely average arms, breasts, belly, and legs. The trouble began about a year ago over a bar of lilac soap. The soap had reminded her of something, something very sad from when she was a small girl which she could not quite recall. The sadness had reminded her of a song—a little tune she had learned as a small girl—

            _“ring around the ros’ry, pocket full of posies—”_

                                                                                                                        —and Martha had let the rhyme roll out, bouncing off the shower walls, rich and full. She played the tune up and down her range, listening with fascination to her own honey-high notes and growling low ones. The song enveloped her, vibrating in her chest and bouncing off the walls, when suddenly—

            “Quiet, Martha!”

            Jane Grey had stalked into the showering hall, towel over her shoulder and a bee in her bonnet. Even then, Jane had held a rather high position at BLI, and she didn’t like to let people forget it. Martha was more than a little afraid of her.

            “Martha, Martha, Martha,” Jane had drawled. “You know, I thought that you were _with_ us, Martha. I thought that you were one of us through and through. That you understood true happiness. But here I find you… _singing._ ” The last word dripped disgust. “Singing, Martha. Singing displays the remnants of the inner self. And what do we want to do with the inner self, Martha?”

            “Drown him dead,” Martha whispered dutifully.

            “That’s right.” Martha started—the voice was alarmingly close, and Martha’s eyes jerked up to see Jane’s muddy irises peering around her shower curtain.

            “NO more SINGing.”

            Martha had nodded, hastily pulled on clothes, and dashed out of the shower. The memory still sent chills down her spine. She hadn’t sung another note for months.

            Now, Jane held an even more important position—rumor had it she was a personal attendant of Korse himself—and Martha had risen to the respectable post of Secretary Transcriber for Judas Arnold. Martha never sang in the showers—not in the office—not in the cantina—

            But some nights, when she lay in her white bed and stared at the silver moon traveling slowly across her low white ceiling, Martha felt a yearning in her chest, felt a melody slip past her lips. Something deep inside of Martha desperately wanted to sing, sing, sing, no matter how many times Martha refused. The inner self simply refused to die.

            With this terrible worry clouding her mind, Martha had some difficulty focusing on Arnold’s voice. It was a rather pleasant voice, a bit low. She fiddled with the settings on the radio, twirled her pen, and sighed. Her mind slowly cleared. She would worry about her rebellious voice later.

            “1800. All quiet for now in zone 4. No sign of target. Over.”

            Martha scratched some shorthand notes and listened to the static. She had a vague idea of whom Arnold was tracking—some crew calling themselves the Fabulous Killjoys, tearing about the zones in a Trans Am and raising hell and havoc. Martha shuddered at the thought of meeting one of those nasty people, then remembered that she was safe in battery city.

            “2035. Targets met up with second crew and took out a squad of draculoids. Second crew possibly a satellite. Vehicle—mustang, poor condition; wolf print painted on the hood. Descriptions of crew: leader—short, wears wolf mask, carries quiver of arrows, long dark hair, authoritative; companion—male, not much taller, stocky, carries knife belt, black hair, looks dangerous; difficult to see other two from this angle; one female—apparently carrying a grenade belt; one male—appears to be carrying circuitry. Unsure. Will track and attempt to get closer look or photograph. Will speak with sketch artist upon return if photographs not obtained.”

            Martha dutifully jotted down the details and called a sketch artist on her interdepartment telephone. Normally Arnold’s information was much better; sketch artists could usually draw up a pretty good picture using only his phoned-in descriptions. However, with this particular crew—the Killjoys—Arnold was being careful, and Martha actually knew the reason why. Typically, Arnold researched his targets by posing as one of them, a zone runner, ingratiating himself with the group in question, collecting and calling in information as to their habits, and then either assassinating them himself or calling in a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit to do the job. He had tried that with these Killjoys, but he had been unsuccessful. Their leader—Party Poison, some scoundrel with scraggly red-dyed hair and a mean way with a blaster—was not given to trust strangers, and it hadn’t been long before Arnold found himself chased far away from the Killjoys and their diner. Arnold was eager to make up for that failure, but inclined to exercise caution.

            “0015. Possible connection between second group and rebel picked up in zone 7.”

            Martha listened to the tape rolling, rolling, rolling. She sighed. Watched the seconds tick by on her clean white desk clock. Each second exactly the same length, in a solid, steady rhythm… a song tugged at the edge of her mind…

            “ _Sing it out, boy, you got to see what tomorrow brings…_ ”

            Martha hummed quietly. The clock ticked on.

            “ _Sing it out, girl, you got to be what tomorrow needs…”_

            Martha knew exactly what tomorrow needed. Equality. Sameness. Cleanliness next to godliness and obedience above all. Still, still, the clock ticked on, and Martha sang softly…

            _“For every time that they want to count you out…”_

            Sing, sing, sing, Martha’s blood cried. And she sang.

            _“SING it for the boys, SING it for the girls, every time that you lose it—sing it for the world…”_

            The words were confused, she couldn’t remember, but she had to keep singing—

            _“Sing it out, for the ones that hate your guts!”_

            Martha vaguely heard Arnold’s voice again on the radio, but she didn’t care, the seconds were ticking away and her voice was lovely, lovely, lovely, and something tugged at the back of her mind, some memory, something she remembered—

            _“Sing it for the world, sing it for the world!”_

            Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

            _“Cleaned up, corporation progress, dying in the process—”_

            Dying, dying, dying, tick, tock, tick, tock—

            _“—children that can talk about it, livin’ on the web ways—”_

            “… now have exact descriptions of the secondary group, listen, the leader…”

            _“—people movin’ sideways, sell it ’till your last days—”_

            “… telling you, I know this girl, know who she is, where she’s from, listen…”

            Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

            The door flew open.

            Martha did not hear.

            _“…Generation nothing! Nothing but a dead scene! Product of a white dream! I am not the singer that you wanted—”_

            Footsteps approached.

            Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

            _“—but a dancer! I refuse to answer!”_

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

            Footsteps, more footsteps—

            “… and her boy, I know who he is, too, and I can tell you…”

            Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

            _“KEEP RUNNING!”_

            Large, rough hands grasp Martha’s throat. Her arms are pinned, her legs—

            Jane’s face is close, too close. The eyes with no soul are staring at her, staring at her with their perfect soullessness and Martha has to look away because, the abyss, the abyss gazes also, and—

            “I told you not to sing, you dirty bitch.”

            And then everything is black…

            Martha wakes up in a small room. Her throat hurts… her throat hurts… and her eyes, the world is too white, and blank…

            She puts a hand cautiously to her throat. It is covered in bandages and swollen, so swollen.

            Her face… her face is covered by a mask, a mask that feels ugly…

            She opens her mouth to sing. Nothing comes out.

            Her vocal cords have been cut…

            And so Martha Brown joins the ranks of the draculoids.

 


	2. Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names are powerful. Knowledge is power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... some of the characters used here... may or may not be based on real people. So, although the story calls for revelation of surnames, I decided that giving real last names would be imprudent, but I did not feel like inventing last names for everyone. So, I gave a letter and a hyphen. Go ahead and imagine any name you want behind that hyphen.

            In a small, dark room in the very heart of the Battery City Prison, a small, dark man spears his prey. One by one, A. James Smith pins his victims to a wall and watches them squeal and squirm until they have bled all they know. Smith watches and writes down the information, meticulously and slowly, and then he lets the drained creatures down, lets them down and sprays the wall clean and sends the broken husks back to their cells.

            A. James Smith enjoys his work very much. He is a prison psychiatrist for Better Living Industries. Who would not enjoy such a position?

            Today, Mr. Smith’s victim is a young man with curly black hair and a round cheery face. Doesn’t look too cheery now, though, poor chap. He’s been in the prisons only about a week, but, well—you know what they do to guys like us in prison.

            A. James Smith smiles pleasantly at the young man. A nice smile. Mr. Smith has always been told that he has a nice smile. He knows how to use it to his advantage.

            “So, dear lad, tell me, are they treating you well here?”

            The boy is mute. He looks at the floor, staring at the tiles, the white, white tiles.

            “Come now, let’s be friends. You haven’t got any other friends here, you know. But I, I like you. I could be your friend. Come on, now—” Mr. Smith glances at a file—“Randy P—, let’s talk, let’s have a nice little chat. You, and me.”

            The boy looks up. “Cupcake Cartel.”

            “I’m sorry?” A. James Smith is puzzled, but polite. Of course, the boy is confused—Mr. Smith is sympathetic.

            “My name. Is Cupcake Cartel.”

            Mr. Smith understands. He smiles.

            “Randy, no need to use such names here. Here—here, you are safe. We can use your real name, Randy. Your good name, the one you were born with. Come now, Randy, we’re friends. We can talk real names. Come, let’s, Randy.”

            The boy is silent. He knows who this man is. He knows what this man wants. And he won’t give his friends up, no, not Adrenaline Rose or Transmission Hydrogen or Molten Melody—

            “Come, don’t be so sullen, dear boy. Talk to Mr. Smith.”

            The boy looks up defiantly. “Make me!”

            Mr. Smith’s smile changes. Before, it beamed kindliness; now, it glows with something more sinister, something—like—satisfaction—

            “Ah, my dear Randy, I intend to do just that. I know you, you see. I know everything about you. Why, I have practically measured out your life with coffee spoons. I know where you’ve been, where you’re going—“

            The boy’s lip curls. His body tenses, as though waiting for some terrible blow.

            “For instance, I know _all_ about your family. Your friends. Your life before BLI saved the country—“

            “BLI didn’t save this country! You’ve killed it!”

            “Ah, struck a nerve, did we?” The smile broadens. “I know all about your little friends, the dead ones. All about them. Krisia R—, for instance. Dead as a doornail.”

            Mr. Smith is lying, of course. This Krisia, whoever she may be, is alive and kicking away. But our dear young hero has no way of knowing this.

            “Almost a sister to you, wasn’t she? But she’s dead now. Killed here, in this very prison, in fact. We lopped her hands off first, and then—”

            “STOP!” It is a scream, filled with rage and pain.

            “Tied them around her neck and force-fed her with arsenic until she died. Horribly painful, of course. Horribly. My heart went out to the poor girl—if only we’d been friends, she and I, perhaps I could have saved her—”

            Not that he would have. And our protagonist knows this, at least, knows it like he knows that water is for drinking and air is for breathing—

            “You’re LYING, you dirty old man!”

            “Ah, don’t address me that way, Randy. Mr. Smith, I’m Mr. Smith. There’s a dear boy. Now, what was I saying?... ah, yes… your friends. Well, Krisia is dead, poor soul, and so are Emily S— and Andrew A—, poor dears. You see, we lured darling Emily into a cave, made her think her cousin Aly was in there, and then, well, some draculoids were waiting for her. Her Andrew, the knight in shining armor, came to her rescue, but, well, he was too late. She died in his arms… As you can imagine, he was rather upset, and the draculoids didn’t really even have to try to kill him.”

            “You bastard. You son of a bitch…”

            “Language, Randy, language! Who else… Ah, the sisters, Anna and Laura H—. They put up a good fight, the two of them. Back to back, blasters blazing. We offered to allow them to surrender and return to Battery City alive, but they refused, oddly enough. Some silliness about ‘liberty or death.’ Well, they’re dead now, so I suppose they did get what they wanted.”

            “You’re a fucking liar.”

            Our hero starts at the sound of this new voice, and so does our dastardly psychiatrist. The door has swung open, and two girls stand in the door frame, the shorter blond holding a makeshift picklock, the taller pointing a blaster at Mr. Smith’s fragile egg-shaped head. The young man was choking back sobs at Mr. Smith’s horrible tales; now he could cry for joy, seeing the two in the doorway. The short one helps him out of his chair while the other, with hair a decidedly unnatural shade of jade, stalks slowly toward the man in the chair, who cowers and snivels down the barrel of her neon green gun.

            “You don’t deserve to live,” she snarls. Her finger tightens on the trigger. “You evil, foul, rotten, dirty—”

            “Transmission.” The shorter girl shoots her sister a warning look. “You don’t have to kill him. We don’t have to kill.”

            Transmission Hydrogen stiffens, pauses. She does not lower her gun, but her finger loosens. The psychiatrist looks relieved. He relaxes. “Ah, thank you, Miss Laura. I appreciate you speaking up for me, I really do. I—”

            “You know our real names?” Transmission growls the question. Behind her, sister Laura and our young hero slip out the door.

            “Well, naturally. I’m rather high up, you know, access to a lot of information. You know, if you should, ah, require any, ah, tips, I would be more than happy to supply them, as a friend, you know—”

            “What’s your real name, then, Mr. Smith? Mr. A. James Smith?” The blaster is raised again, pressed under Mr. Smith’s jawbone. “Can you give me a tip?” He chokes.

            “Alfred! Alfred!”

            “You’re a LIAR!”

            “Guk—it’s—ahk—please don’t kill me—ALISTAIR! MY NAME IS ALISTAIR!”

            The name brings tears of shame to Alistair’s eyes. He feels something warm and wet run down the inside of his pants. Memories of elementary school, of the other children’s mocking faces and mocking mouths, flood his mind. Mocking his name. He understands the power of names, poor Mr. Smith.

            Transmission cocks her head. A smile seeps across her face.

            Through the blur of tears, Alistair sees something familiar. “You know, my dear,” he chokes through the sobs, “if you weren’t so… so colorful, you could be a wonderful BLI agent… I swear…  right now, I swear you look just like Korse… the look on your face…”

            The girl recoils at the sound of the name, face contorted with disgust.

            “I am not like him! I will never end up like him!”

            Alistair laughs brokenly. “My dear, behind your back, I rather think that you already are.”

            Transmission hesitates. Alistair seizes the moment, lunges forward to his desk to try to pull out the blaster he keeps there—

            Transmission drops her own blaster and pulls a book from a deep pocket. She rears back, and— _thwack_ —a heavy hardcover slams across Alistair’s skull.

            His eyes close, he falls, but he still breathes.

            The girl, panting hard and on the verge of tears, binds the man to his chair and staggers out of the room.

            “I will never end up like him. I am _not_ like him!”

            Anna H— stumbles, catches herself, and sprints down the hall to join her sister and her friend.

            Laura H— thinks of nothing, nothing but the weight on her arm and the need to get out, out, out.

            Randy P— leans heavily on Laura. His body is covered in scrapes and his mind is bruised, but his soul is sound. Our hero will pull through this ordeal, live on to fight another day.

            Hours later, in his office, his dark little office, Alistair James Smith stirs awake. He laughs, a harsh, guttural laugh.

            “I have known them… known them all… and I will get them, in the end, yes. Pinned and wriggling. Yes… TO THE WALL! YES!”

            Alistair James Smith understands, you see. He understands the power of names, and he understands the value of information. He has learned some very important things about our little trio tonight, and just as soon as his head stops throbbing you can be sure that he will be up and about, busily weaving his webs for his precious little victims. The darlings. _His_ darlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm... this was fun, but kind of awkward. I will probably mostly avoid involving characters who may or may not be real people to this extent in the future.


	3. 24601

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another view of a prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares... I was actually planning (as much as I ever "plan"; really, I "vaguely supposed that I wanted") to put a totally different story next, but it's not going so well. I decided to try something a little different, and... this happened! Yay? Probably not. This is a bit unfocused. And a little odd. Um, moral of the story is, I've been reading far too much modern poetry. And I like Les Miserables enough to make an almost-but-not-quite-pointless reference but not enough to remember over which vowel I'm supposed to put the accent mark.

the prison is dark and black and

wet. wet. with the

dripdripdripdrip of

mildewy water on the ground and want out

can OUT someone OUT hear me with

:ten: seconds to go I’m already out the door.

 

OUTOUTOUTOUTOUT and

the warden with his nastygreasy hair can you

spare a dime? please because I’m starving or

want to buy some porn, what’s the difference gimme

can I pay tomorrow? i will pay tomorrow just out. out.

 

just a dream and wake up warden standing in the corner out?

can I go home now? with

two pounds of color in my hair and three pounds off no

skin OFF my back if you take it

can I be beautiful tomorrow? please

clean my face off and make me beautiful tomorrow.

 

nose too big, you see. lop it off am I out yet? i am

and the air is moist nonono still in LET ME GO

if anyone can make sense of this it’s the spider

on my tooth. ick. off. off. spider.

tell me, does my voice make me look fat?

take my voice off too because it’s too heavy can

 

I go home? tomorrow? tomorrow?

or maybe today but the damn key

sticks in the lock please buy me a new one, warden,

with your cheap porn or the food for your children

i I i don’t care dontdont just let me go please

I’ll do anything just out

 

of

 

here

 

but

 

here is here is not and

the prison is nonono

is only in my mind.


	4. Judas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judas buys you a beer and tells you about the Fabulous Killjoys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I think that I'm done writing in first person (as far as fictional prose is concerned). I had an absolutely dreadful time trying to get through this chapter. I think that I started it four or five months ago, and I've just had the worst writer's block. But now it's done. And it's dreadful, but after spending so much time on it I'd rather not not post it.

            Killjoys.

            Let me tell you about the Killjoys.

            They’re a bunch of brats, that’s what they are. A bunch of beastly good-for-nothing punks. With their damn car. And their damn hair dye. What makes them so special, huh? What makes them think they’re so much better than the rest of us?

            Let me tell you about the _Killjoys_ , man. Let me tell you.

            I ran with them for a while. Yup. That’s what I do—I run with these idiots, report them once I’ve got enough info, let the pros come in and clean up the mess. Pays the bills, and I like it. Bastards and bitches have it coming anyway. Let me tell you, though.

            This group, well, no, they’re all killjoys, you understand, or at least I think so, but _this_ group, they’re the _Fabulous_ Killjoys, or some shit, like they’re so much better than the rest of us. Hah. Let me _tell_ you.

            I came to them with the usual sob story crap. My sister was killed in the takeover and, oh, no, Better Living is going to kill me because I’m such a rebellious nonconforming individual aaah save me and they took me in eventually. Had to kill a drac or two for them, save their little asses and then they took me in. Suckers.

            You know, that’s the problem with good people. I mean, people think that everyone else is basically like them, right? I mean, deep down. You want to think that you’re different or special or whatever, but really you believe that other people are just like you. So good people, they think that everyone is good. Only they’re wrong. Everyone is a fucked up mess.

            Anyway, I ran with these guys for a while. Watched them pull their hero stunts. Whatever. Funny thing, though, I could never seem to get away to report. One of those punks was always hanging around. Couldn’t get a moment alone. Almost like they weren’t such idiots after all, right? But let me tell you what happened.

            We got a call to go to this abandoned building, well, a radio signal, or something, some guy in the sky named Dr. Death sent us. A girl needed our help, damsel in distress, so off we went. So we’re driving out there, right, and I’m somehow smashed into the middle of the back seat, and this guy, Kobra Kid (did I mention they have the most idiotic names?) turns around from the shotgun seat and just gives me this look. Like he knows something I don’t. And then he turns back around. Like that’s supposed to tell me something.

            I’m thinking about asking Jet Star (to my left) what the fuck that was supposed to mean when Party Poison, the driver, stops the car and there’s just this moment when we all just sit there. Silence. And then he, then Party Poison, he says to me, “you take care of yourself, okay?”

            Out of the blue! It’s like they _knew_. Only they couldn’t have, but it put me a bit on edge all the same.

            See, that was finally going to be my day to turn them in. I’ve got a sort of handheld, silent signaling device for emergencies like this. Connect to satellite, send zone and area code, and the Better Living people know where to pick the rebels up. So I’d said I had to take a piss and sent off the information before we left that day. And it was like they knew, somehow. Weird, right? Well, it got weirder.

            So we leave the car parked behind some brush so that it won’t be too visible, and then we get out of the car. I’m standing there in what I swear is 130 degree heat, sweat rolling down my forehead, and I don’t want to be there. Usually, turn-in day is my favorite part of my mission because I don’t have to be there to see it, the little buggers get what they deserve, and I get to go home.

            Today is different. I’m stuck here with these guys on pick-up day. I shouldn’t be, but I am. Couldn’t arrange things any other way. And, okay, maybe it’s because I’ve been with this group longer than usual, I don’t know, but I almost feel sorry for them. Damn it, I shouldn’t feel that way, but in this moment, I do. And, worst of all, I might not get to go home after this. Some trouble off in a different zone. Might have to go check it out.

            So I’m in a foul mood as I adjust my silly little green bandana and trudge down a hill toward this building where there’s this girl that these idiots are hell-bent on rescuing. Fun Ghoul slips on some rocks. Party Poison barely catches him before he rolls down the hill. I want to push them all down the hill, but I refrain. What can I say. Kindness of my heart.

            We approach a window, broken glass and a torn-up frame. In a team of relatively small guys, I am, shamefully, the smallest, so Jet Star boosts me up and I slip through the jagged hole in the window.

            Gray ceiling, gray walls, gray floor. Pretty dismal place. There are literally cobwebs hanging in the corners and piles of swept-up dirt everywhere I look. Blech.

            “She’s not in here,” I hiss through the window, “but there doesn’t seem to be much of anyone else.”

            I pry the window out of its frame as quietly as possible and lean down to pull up the others. Party Poison comes first and scans the room while I drag the rest through. Every time every guy steps into the room, dust balloons from underfoot and clouds the air. When we finally haul Jet Star up, it looks like we’ve each smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes with the windows closed. I can’t see more than a yard from my face.

            “Okay, I figure we’ve got about five minutes to find this girl, five more to get out,” Party Poison murmurs. “Jet Star and Fun Ghoul, take the attic. Kobra Kid—check this floor. Mr. Green Bandana, you’re with me.”

            What can I say? I’m no good at coming up with dumb code names. Doesn’t cost me any sleep at night whatsoever.

            So the redhead and I head down into the basement. Smelliest basement I’ve ever smelled. Now, I know I’ve got no reason to be nervous, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a little queasy headed down those steps, if you know what I mean.

            We get to the bottom, and there’s a door. Big wooden thing, the sort of door you’d expect to see in one of those movies about Life Before Electricity. I go to open it, but Mr. Leader catches my hand.

            “You’re not going to like what you see in here. Okay? It’s disturbing. Kobra Kid puked the first time we came in here. Listen, you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. In fact, it might be useful to have someone guard the door.”

            What is this, some kind of test? The guy’s eyes are seriously blazing holes through my skull, and my creepy queasy feeling about quadruples.

            “No, man, I’m coming in,” I say. “Two can search the basement quicker than one, right? Anyway, Kobra Kid will catch people before they make it to the staircase. No guard needed.”

            His lips press together in a thin line. I guess his face is attempting to express disapproval. Or concern, maybe? Anyway, he nods and opens the door.

            Oh. Oh, no.

            I realize why the stink smelled familiar, why it brought back queasy memories I couldn’t quite remember. When I was a little kid, when I was maybe six or seven, I had this pet hamster, Stevie. Cute little guy with brownish fur. Kept him in a cage in my bedroom. Used to let him sleep on my pillow. Anyway, we went on vacation this one time and got back and my room smelled, oh, it smelled terrible. Like someone gutted a particularly nasty shade of the color gray and then strung its guts across a sewer on a hot summer day to let them drip dry. My dad said maybe we had a clogged pipe, but then I found Stevie. I guess he died while we were gone. Had some maggots or something crawling through him. Couldn’t sleep in my own room for months afterward.

            And the basement smells like that smell because this room, it’s like my bedroom—it’s a room of death. The floor is covered with bodies. Human bodies. Most in bags or coffin-like boxes. Some not. Someone laid them out all nice and pretty and put flowers on them, but the flowers don’t cover the smell, and the nice corpse pose doesn’t hide that these bodies are very dead and very decayed.

            I feel my bile rising, but I choke it down. Can’t throw up. Not in front of Mr. Leader. Not on pick-up day, my favorite day. Not in front of…

            Some of these people aren’t even adults. There is a girl at my feet who can’t be more than six. Well, couldn’t have been. She’s very dead. And decaying. But her hair is still in these twisty braids with big, colorful beads on the end, and someone tucked a little horse doll under her arm. She’s wearing pink…

            I don’t know how long I’ve been crying, but I suddenly realize that I can’t smell anything anymore because my nose is full of snot. I wipe my face on my shirtsleeve and look at Party Poison. He’s unzipping body bags, prying lids off of coffins. Why… what…

            “What happened?” My voice cracks.

            He looks up from his body bag. “A few families running from Better Living spent a couple of nights here last winter. Too cold to sleep outside. Someone must have given away their location… a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit surrounded the house and killed all of the people inside. All but two, anyway. These are the dead ones—” he gestures rather unnecessarily at the floor “—and one of the ones who escaped came back to our station. Told us that another man was taken away by the Better Living goons. We came down here to try to put the people to rest, give them some sort of send-off, but we couldn’t burn them without attracting attention and a real burial would take too long. So here they are.”

            And that’s when I puke.

            I betrayed these people.

            I’d forgotten about it, actually… it was one of my earlier jobs. Not much to tell—I think that I kept myself somewhat drunk most of the time, so there’s not much that I remember. That was back when you could get some decent alcohol. But _this_ is what happened to those people…

            Party Poison is coming toward me with a sympathetic expression on his face—what’s he going to do, pat my back? tell me that it’s okay that I got all these people killed?—when we’re both distracted by a blond head popping out of a body bag.

            It’s a teenage girl with big eyes and short hair. She’s looking at Party Poison like I would look at the ghost of Stevie.

            “Are… are you here to help me?”

            She’s so much like a ghost in this pit of death that for a moment I’m certain that she is one.

            Party Poison holds her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

            The girl stands, sways slightly, catches herself, straightens. “I don’t know how much longer I could have held out, thank you, thank you…” She rushes toward Party Poison and hugs him. Slowly, carefully, he hugs her back. “I’m Fairie Rebel. I—”

            “Shh,” Party Poison whispers. “No names. Not even those names. Not yet. Not until we get you out of here.”

            And that’s when I know for sure that I am going to some sort of hell, because we hear screams from upstairs.

            Party Poison is back in Mr. Leader mode. “You take the girl. Keep her safe,” he barks. Then he charges up the stairs, gun drawn and ready.

            I take the girl’s hand and lead her toward the stairs. “Come on, we’re going to get you out of here. It’s going to be okay.”

            And I look at her and I mean it. It’s going to be okay. How can I say that? How can I say that? I’m the one who reported these rebels! I’m the one who gave them away! It’s not going to be okay for them, I don’t want it to be okay for them, that’s my job. I have to do my job. Right? Am I right?

            But then she smiles, just a small, wan smile, and hugs me, vomit, snot, and all. “I know,” she says.

            She pulls me up the stairs. “Come on, we have to get out behind the other guy.”

            I understand what she’s saying—he’ll distract whoever’s out there, we’ll slip off if we can. So I follow.

            Mr. Leader has already blasted through the door. I mean that quite literally—he didn’t open the door; he blasted a hole through it. A shocked drac turns toward him and then falls to the ground as Kobra Kid shoots a hole through his brains.

            There must be at least a dozen dracs in the room. Somehow Kobra Kid and Jet Star have managed to keep them from killing Fun Ghoul, who is on the ground clutching his arm in a puddle of sticky red blood. I think that I’m going to puke again, so as Mr. Leader yells and runs at the dracs to the left, I pull the girl to the right. The window—I have to get us to the window.

            “Wait!” The girl is staring at me with those wide, wide eyes. “We should help them!”

            I am not a fighter. Especially not for this losing team.

            But when that fairy of a little girl pulls a gun from a fallen drac and starts shooting, I can’t just stand and watch. Someone has to protect her, damn it. I betrayed the guys and I don’t care, they can die, whatever. But this girl—she could be my kid sister. Someone has to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.

            So I pull out my blaster and start shooting. Shooting my own people. I don’t care, really. Isn’t that what I do anyway? Shoot my own people? Who are my people? Who knows? Who cares?

            And then—

            “Look out!” That’s Kobra Kid, and he’s looking my way.

            I turn and duck but there’s a gun pointed at my stomach and now, now’s when I’m really going to die, I’m done—

            And you know what happens?

            Mr. Leader, because he has to be a hero, or some shit, jumps in front of me. He takes the hit. He’s the one lying on the ground. He’s the one bleeding on the floor. Not me.

            “You idiot, what did you do that for?” I’m crying again. Why am I crying again? “You think you’re better than me, huh? You think that you can take a hit for me because you’re better than me?”

            He doesn’t respond. Just covers his wound with one hand, trying to stop all that blood, and grabs me with the other, hurls me away from the fight.

            “Take her and go!”

            So I do.

            I grab the girl and run. We find the window. We climb out. And we get away, away to the car.

            “I’m going to go back,” I lie. “I’m going to go back and help them get out.”

            She nods at me silently.

            So I go. But not back. I go out to the road where I know that a sleek new chauffeured car will be waiting for me, a car to take me back to my office or to my house or to my next drop-off point for my next case or I don’t even know where. Somewhere. Somewhere that’s not here.

            So that’s what I know about the Killjoys. I hate them. I hate all of them. Don’t you? You would, if you could understand what they did to me. Saving my life? Like they’re better than me? Huh? They think they’re better than me? Well, they’re not! And they should know that. I’m the one who’s going to win. I’m evolved, or whatever. I don’t care about being some stupid hero. I don’t care about saving people. I’m just going to do my job. Do my job and drink my beer.

**Author's Note:**

> Umm... I was going to list stuff that I quote or reference, but... I think that I probably don't have to bother. I quote stuff. Stuff that isn't mine. I don't own it. Someone cooler than me does. Or did, if he/she/it/they is/are dead.


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